The first time I ever paid to go fishing was when I took a trip to Iceland in 1980. I had never fished for Atlantic salmon and was looking for some romance, as well as for a new experience in a new land.

There are more than 50 bent, mangled treble hooks in the old Skippy peanut butter jar, artifacts from the early to mid-1980s, when surf fishermen on Block Island, Rhode Island, were regularly tying into huge striped bass.

Our wives told us: If you catch a king, kill it, and we’ll turn it into ceviche tonight. They said: We’ve got all the fixings at the house, then went downstream to fish for trout. Two beautiful women, late in the long Chilean afternoon, about to work up ample appetites.